Short Fiction: Diner Denial

Jim hunched over his coffee and read the sports section. The diner sheltered only himself and another regular -Carl sat a few stools down, the crazy old coot- and Maureen, the proprietor, who busied herself behind the counter polishing coffee cups in a futile attempt to remove ancient stains.

She silently fretted about the condition of the place, as she did everyday. Small tears in the decades old upholstery on the booths and stools bothered her, and she desperately wanted to replace the tacky curtains with something not featuring drawings of kittens. Puppies maybe. Or birds.

The door creaked open and clanged closed, and as Jim reached for his mug a lilting voice sang out from beside him.

“Remember Lamont? Remember how it was?”

Jim started and straightened up. He turned to find a young woman, maybe 21 or 22, standing with her hips pressed against the stool next to his, looking at him.

“Those magical days on the beach?” she said, smiling at him with even, white teeth. “We used to laugh and hold hands and paint Maurice’s dog safety orange just for the fun of it. Remember?”

Jim looked around. Who was the girl talking to? Carl peered down the counter, molesting the newcomer with his eyes, and Maureen stopped her polishing to tune into the conversation. He looked back at he girl, who remained standing, smiling at him through large, tortoise shell glasses.

She wore her dirty blonde hair pulled back in a pony tail, and her short, light green tee-shirt revealed a brief strip of tanned skin above the lip of her faded blue jeans. Her softly protruding hip bones bumped gently against the edge of the stool as she shuffled almost imperceptibly closer.

“I miss it so,” she went on, “making love on that beach, in the sand, the sea washing over us. Just you and me, Lamont.”

Jim stared at her, baffled, and she sighed deeply and turned pert breasts towards him, firm beneath the thin cotton of the tee-shirt.

“Jim,” he said. “It’s Jim.”

“Yes!” She laughed and moved another inch towards him. “We did go to the gym! Every Tuesday and Thursday! And you taught me how to use the Nautilus machine to strengthen my thighs! The better to squeeze you with, right Lamont?” She extended a hand to his forearm, gently brushing it through his red and white plaid shirt.

Jim looked down at himself, utterly confused. Still 56 years old, still 40 pounds over weight, still dressed in the same plaid shirt and ratty, manure stained jeans he wore almost every day. He looked back at the girl, who pursed her lips at him and emitted a short, soft giggle.

“You taught me so much, Lamont. So much about…pleasure.” She let the word linger in the air, and the way she said it sounded thick and sweet, like a mouthful of honey.

Maureen had ambled over to stand across the counter from them, her hands on her hips, one thumb hooked through the tie strings of her threadbare apron.

“Well,” she said, looking first at Jim, then at the girl, “ain’t cha gonna introduce us to your friend here?”

“Ummm..” Stammered Jim. He looked at Maureen, and then at the girl, and then down at his shit stained pants. “Well…I don’t rightly…umm.”

“Cytheria,” said the girl, and extended her hand towards Maureen, palm down, like a duchess. Maureen shook it awkwardly, palm in, the way her daddy had taught her to shake hands as a little girl when he used to take her to cattle auctions.

“Uh huh,” said Maureen, one eyebrow cocked. “And how exactly do you know our man Jim here?”

“Lamont and I…we have some…history,” purred Cytheria. “Years ago, in Mozambique. I had just turned 18 and he was just….well he was just magnificent. He opened my eyes to a world of physical ecstasy I had never even imagined.” She stepped closer to Jim, pressing one firm breast into his shoulder, bumping one hip against his slumping, left love handle.

Jim felt a stirring in his groin. He could sense the closeness of this girl, feel her lithesome smoothness against him, smell the floral sweetness of her perfume or lotion or something. She pressed against him harder and slid her hand up his arm and over his shoulder until her fingers danced in his greasy, graying hair, ever so slightly brushing his ear lobe.

Maureen was skeptical. Carl, still a few stools down the counter, also harbored doubts. He cocked his bald head to one side and squinted towards the unlikely duo.

“Jim,” he croaked, voice raspy with decades of unfiltered Lucky Strikes, “When inna hell you ever been over in Moo-Sam-Bic? Where inna hell is that at, anyhow?”

“Well…” Jim hesitated. That tanned and toned little hip had turned towards him now, and he could feel the lump of her pelvis against the thick fat where his midsection spilled over his belt. Cytheria had begun bumping herself against him in a slow, soft rhythm. Bump, bump, bump. He tried to think of something to say.

“You know…it just uh….” He knew he should deny everything, but then this sun kissed little sliver of over sexed femininity might back away from him, might vanish completely.

Bump, bump bump, went Cytheria, swirling her fingers deeper into his hair.

“Well…”said Jim. “It was…It was a few years back.”

“Oh Lamont! I knew you wouldn’t deny me!” Cytheria threw her arms around his neck and pressed her face into the folds of rough and stubbly neck fat at the base of his cheek.

“Uh-huh,” grunted Maureen, crossing her arms over her chest. “Tell me sumthin’, Jim, where exactly is Mozambique?”

“Africa!” Squealed Cytheria, much to Jim’s relief. “Southeast Africa! It’s beautiful there!”

“Well, yes, that’s right.” Jim smiled up at Maureen, very much enjoying the caressing embrace of this lovely young woman. Down the counter, Carl slapped his knee audibly.

“Well hot damn! I never knew that! Afri-key! How ’bout that!” Carl grinned at the pair, impressed and jealous. He had never had a visceral experience quite so nubile as the young miss Cytheria there, who had wrapped herself around his long time acquaintance like a rutting weasel.

Maureen was less easily swayed.

“So, Lamont, what exactly were ya doin’ over there in Africa?” she asked, leaning forward and scowling at Cytheria.

“Oh just…Just sort of travelin’. Just takin’ a trip.” He no longer cared that he was lying. Cytheria’s left hand wandered down to his upper thigh and her lips found his ear lobe, where she alternated between gently tugging kisses and little cooing noises. All the while the tempo of her pelvic gyration increased against his side. Bump bump bump.

“Uh huh.” Said Maureen. “Just travelin’ around? In Africa? Just takin’ a trip?”

“Yep, that’s right,” grinned Jim. Bumpbumpbumpbumpbump, went Cytheria.

Carl slapped his knee again. He wanted to believe.

“That’s right!” he screeched. “Jus’ trav-lin’ aroun’!” He stared at Cytheria, at all of her.

“Uh huh,” repeated Maureen. “And then you just came back?”

Cytheria suddenly stopped bumping. She released Jim and took a step back.

“Oh you mustn’t tell them, Lamont. You mustn’t.” Her eyes had grown wide behind the glasses and one hand lingered at her pink lips, which she pressed into a thin line.

“I mussent?” asked Jim.

“Oh no! Maurice is gone, Lamont. I know it was an accident. I know you feel terrible. But confessing won’t bring him back. It won’t!”

“Maurice?” asked Jim.

“Oh Lamont!” Cytheria threw an arm across her brow and swooned. “He only slapped me! Only once! And I know you just meant to rough him up a little! I know! I should never have even told you! But he was so mad because we painted his dog safety orange so very many times, Lamont!”

“Safety orange?” asked Jim.

“But you didn’t mean to kill him Lamont! You didn’t mean to! I know that!”

Carl gasped and straightened himself unsteadily.

“Lamont!” he croaked. “I mean Jim! You kilt Maurice! And ya painted ‘is dog!”

Jim looked stricken, but Cytheria seemed more so. She threw up her hands and stumbled across the room to where Carl sat. She threw her arms around him and brought her face within inches of his.

“Yes!” she cried. “But he didn’t mean to! Can you understand that! A man consumed by passion, protecting the woman he loves! Can you possibly understand?”

Carl frowned. He looked down at the floor, then up slightly at the strip of bare, tanned skin where Cytheria’s shirt ended prematurely. He put on a stoic look and brought his eyes up to meet hers, nodding curtly.

“Yep,”he said, with absolute certainty. “I understan’ it.”

Maureen had had about all she could take. She slammed her palms down on the counter and yelled across the counter.

“What in God’s good name are you talkin’ about girly! Killin’ and Mozambique and paintin’ dogs! Just what’s your business here anyways!”

Cytheria jumped back from Carl and turned towards Maureen, horror stricken.

“Please don’t tell anyone!” she pleaded, rushing around the end of the counter to stand just inches from Maureen, grasping her shoulders. “You don’t have to! He didn’t mean to do it!”

Maureen stood in shocked silence. It didn’t even occur to her to kick this interloping trollop out from behind the counter.

Suddenly Jim regained his voice. Things were spiralling out of control and he felt he had to act.

“I didn’t kill nobody!” he cried. “And I didn’t paint no dogs neither!”

Cytheria spun around and threw herself across the counter, grabbing Jim by the shirt collar.

“Right! That’s right Lamont! You didn’t kill anyone! Certainly not Maurice! And you’ve never even been to Mozambique, isn’t that right?!?”

“Yes! Yep that’s right all right!” Jim felt a little panicked, and Cytheria’s wild eyes did little to reassure him.

“Good,” she said, calmer now. “That’s real good.” She trotted back around the counter to Jim’s stool and cradled his face with both hands. “I’ll never forget you, Lamont. Never.”

She kissed him deeply on the mouth. A swirling, sloppy kiss, her tongue running along the tops of his molars as Carl and Maureen looked on in shocked confusion. Cytheria pulled away, leaving Jim limp and flushed, almost falling out of his chair.

“Never,” she whispered again, then spun on her heel and rushed out the door.

A pervasive silence consumed the bar. Maureen looked at Carl, Carl looked at Maureen, they both looked at Jim, and Jim stared straight ahead, an idiotic grin plastered across his chubby, unshaven face.

“You lucky sunuva bitch,” said Carl. Then he turned back towards his coffee giggling.

“What in the hell was that?” asked Maureen.

Jim just sat there smiling for a moment, then he hopped up, more energized then he’d felt in years.

“Well Maureen, guess you didn’t know everything there was to know about old Jim here,” he laughed. “What do I owe ya?” He reached for his billfold. “Where’s my wallet?”

Maureen looked at him in alarm, then reached into her apron pocket where she kept a wad of cash for making change.

“My money’s gone!” she shrieked.

Carl lifted his foot and poked a finger down into his shoe, where he kept his only three dollars. Still there. He silently thanked God that he wasn’t burdened by a lot of valuable assets. Maureen reached towards the tip jar.

“It’s empty!” she cried. She looked at Jim who was busy examining the place on his wrist where his watch used to be. “Mozambique huh?” she said, shaking her head. “Yep, I guess we don’t know everything about old Jim, do we?”